


Where Love Lives

by translunartea



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: AU, Domestic, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, slightly nsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 07:57:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18634030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/translunartea/pseuds/translunartea
Summary: of liminal beings, an existential crisis, and snack runs after midnight.





	Where Love Lives

**Author's Note:**

> written last year for my lovely ex-gf, who isn't really into the show but still supports these dorks. unbeta'd, so any mistakes are mine!

Night had long fallen, and Keith’s legs were full of tiny tremors as he slowly climbed off of Shiro, covered in a thin film of sweat and breathing hard. He settled on his back, splaying bare legs so his thighs could breathe after having clung to someone else’s skin for however long that had been, his heart thumping loudly. He looked down at the mess on his stomach, more than thanks in part to Shiro. Keith thought of glancing at the clock, then thought better of it; Keith really didn’t care what time it was. Just that he was finally back home.

He did glance at Shiro, however, to make sure he was okay; his chest was heaving and he had thrown one arm over his face, his prosthetic hand resting on his breastbone, steering clear of the splash zone that glistened all over his stomach. Keith’s eyes lingered on Shiro’s happy trail, as white as the rest of his hair, which somehow always looked like clean snow.

“Jesus,” Shiro panted now, half-laughing, “you’ve never grinded on me that hard before.”

Keith shrugged, closing his eyes, barely conscious at this point. “Yeah, well,” he murmured, “I’ve been gone for a week.” Admittedly, it hadn’t taken him long to reach orgasm, but he’d held out as long as he could — he always did like it when Shiro came first.

A soft, silken chuckle reached Keith’s ears, and his heart fluttered. He cracked open one eye to see Shiro rolling over slowly, arm floating to stroke Keith’s face. Shiro pressed a kiss to Keith’s forehead; another to his nose; the corner of his mouth. “It was good,” he near-whispered. “Really good.”

Keith let out a laugh, then felt a pang in his stomach. “Ah, shit,” he said, still half-grinning. “I’m feeling hungry now.” 

“You didn’t eat?” 

“I, uh — just sorta came straight here.”

Shiro’s eyes widened, and he almost immediately shot out of bed. Keith elevated himself on his elbows, raising one eyebrow in bemusement. “Shiro?”

“I can’t  _ believe  _ you had sex with me on an empty stomach.”

“It’s not a big deal, I’ll just make a sandwich —”

“Keith,” Shiro groaned as he slipped on briefs, throwing a towel he'd used on himself in the laundry bin. “I haven’t gotten groceries yet. I was planning on going tomorrow, when you were  _ supposed  _ to get here, instead of surprising me in the middle of the night.”

“I was excited!” Keith retorted. “The mission went good, Lance and Allura only annoyed me a little bit, I found some cool rocks on Chaldene —”

Shiro looked as though he wanted to grimace, but instead he gave an exasperated smile. “Okay,” he said, “but you need to eat. And I don’t have anything here. I know some twenty-four hour restaur —”

“ _ Ugh _ ,” Keith groaned, flopping back down on the bed. “Please, no. No more takeout. We ordered too much of it on this trip.”

“Oh, right. Hunk says hi, by the way.”

Keith groaned again, even louder this time. “He just  _ had  _ to go and be a stay-at-home dad. The only thing Pidge can make is toast.” He shivered, suddenly feeling chilly. The sweat had cooled on his body rather quickly.

Almost like a hawk, Shiro suddenly looked up from finding pants and zeroed in on Keith's trembling body. Without a word, he disappeared into the hallway, then came back with a folded blanket, presumably from the linen closet. He had grabbed a towel as well and climbed onto the bed with it, dabbing down Keith’s midriff.

“Ah — thanks,” Keith huffed, amused. “I can wipe it off by myself, though.”

“Uh, well, I mean. Most of it’s mine, so.” Shiro was pointedly not looking at Keith, though it was hard to mask the hint of embarrassment that was spreading across his cheeks. After he finished, he laid the blanket over Keith, laying down beside him and wiping Keith’s hair from his forehead, still a bit sticky.

“You’re such a gentleman,” Keith said. “You must charm every boy within a five-mile radius.”

“I do not.”

“Bullshit.”

“Okay, well, I’m just here to charm you.”

“Mission accomplished,” Keith said, pressing a kiss to Shiro’s temple. “Can we eat now?”

“Thought you said I was a, uh, ‘whole-ass meal?’”

Keith playfully swatted Shiro’s thigh. “ _ I  _ didn't say that.  _ Lance  _ said that, and he was making fun of me because I don't get internet jokes. Anyway, uh, rubbing dicks doesn't count as an actual meal.”

“Mm. Tasted kinda good, though.”

“Don't be  _ gross _ . C‘mon. I wanna get some snacks at least.” Keith didn't wait for Shiro’s response; he hauled himself out of bed and found a pair of sweatpants, hiking them up the length of his legs and grabbing a hair tie from the dresser. He looked over at Shiro as he pulled his hair up into a messy ponytail, and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Just snacks? We could order a proper meal, you know. Or you can stay here and relax; I’ll go get you something.”

“Nuh-uh. We’ll go together. I’ll settle for a sandwich; some sweet tea. Maybe I’ll throw in chips if it makes you happy.” He pulled on a t-shirt and a hoodie, a crisp zipping sound filling the silence. Shiro's shoulders finally fell, and Keith inwardly claimed victory.

“Alright,” Shiro said, “but I'm driving.”

 

* * *

 

The land surrounding their home was dark and cool, and Keith’s shoes crushed fallen leaves as they made their way down the path to the parked hoverbikes. Shiro shook off the tarp covering his bike, Keith’s covered in leaves and bits of dirt with grass. “Got a tune-up the other day,” Shiro was saying, “finally replaced the spark plugs. Yours, too.”

Keith blinked. He’d always hated the ins and outs of vehicle maintenance; it was too tedious and not all of the parts made sense to him. He’d been whining to Shiro for months, and Shiro usually had the same response each time:  _ Just get it done. You’ll thank yourself later _ .

Yet here he was, telling Keith he’d taken care of it. “A goddamn prince,” he muttered, slipping on his goggles.

“You say that, but I spilled soup on myself yesterday,” Shiro huffed.

“Princes can be clumsy,” Keith countered, swinging his leg over the bike and holding fast to Shiro’s waist, pulling himself in tightly and taking in the warmth of Shiro’s body. The engine sputtered and revved, coming to life in the night, headlights flickering on. Keith made a mental note to pester Iverson to issue a new bike to Shiro as soon as possible — there was no reason the pilot of the Atlas should have low-grade equipment, after all, even if he was too polite to ask for it himself.

It got up to speed soon enough, Keith’s hair whipping in the wind as they went downhill and onto the main road. The air was cold and crisp; Keith smelled chimney smoke and old rain, his face pressed firmly against Shiro’s back. He opened his eyes and took in the scenery that whirled by, tinted slightly orange by the lens color. Looking up, he saw Shiro staring straight ahead, gloved hands firmly grasping the throttle, jacket zipped tight and clinging to his muscled arms. 

His shoulders were firm, but loose, his body thrown into each motion and turn; some jerky, some smooth. He took on steep hills and sped over a shallow lake, unable to hide the self-satisfied grin that spread across his face. The glow of his arm was bright enough that it lit up the ground beside them, mingling with the white and red of the head and brake lights. The colors seemed to dance all around, as did Shiro, who curved just neatly around a narrow bend as they got closer to town.

Watching him move, Keith thought, was like watching the brush of a self-taught painter move down a canvas. It wasn’t anything close to perfect; no clean strokes, no correctly measured curves, no instructor-approved methods. Shiro didn’t get through anything by the book. His gut — his heart — guided his actions. His mind told him where to bend, where to lead, and his body followed, throwing itself fully into the fray without a second thought. At times, it was foolhardy, and it definitely drove someone like Iverson crazy, but to Keith, well — to Keith, it was goddamn art.

As they drew closer to town, countryside gave way to streetlights and faint, flickering neon. Keith eyed the back of the old motel behind the spread of trees they passed, accessible from the other side of the block. He felt the wind die down as they decelerated, Shiro letting up off the throttle and gently pushing on the handbrake. At this point, Keith felt his stomach rumble, thankful that the growl of the hoverbike was still loud enough to drown out the growl of his insides. As usual, Shiro had been right — he shouldn’t have come straight home on an empty stomach.

“I hope they have those donuts I like,” Shiro said as they came to a floating stop, parking close to the door. He shut the bike down and got to his feet slowly, plucking his goggles by the nosepiece and sliding them down his face. Keith watched the light of the store glow on Shiro’s skin, neon red and illuminated blue softening and sharpening his features all at once.

“Those powdered ones? I don’t know how you can eat those,” Keith said, gripping Shiro’s offered hand as he slid off the bike, legs wobbling just a bit. “You’re gonna get cavities with all those damn sweets.”

Shiro stuck out his tongue, scrunching up his nose. Keith made to stick his fingers up Shiro’s nostrils, only for Shiro to jerk backwards just in time, playful giggles erupting from Keith. 

“You’re so  _ gross _ ,” Shiro groaned, grabbing Keith’s hand as they walked inside, where it was cool and quiet, save for the soft jazz filtering from a dingy off-white speaker above their heads.

“Jeez,” Keith whistled, “feels like I’m in one of those fancy department stores. But like, from the 70s.”

Shiro snorted. “Oh yeah. It’s a real Sears and Roebuck in here. Wanna get matching wool cardigans with your sandwich?”

Keith laughed as he perused the snacks, eyeing a bag of mesquite-flavored chips. “Are we a wool cardigan kind of couple? I don’t remember that being in our vows.”

“Oh, sure.” Shiro considered a package of donuts before swapping them with a cream cheese danish. “‘Til death do us part, or until someone shrinks the other person’s khakis in the wash.’”

“God. The day I come home looking like a retired golfer, you have my full permission to divorce me.”

Shiro chuckled as Keith migrated to the cold foods, the selection wide, much to his delight. They’d arrived late, but not so late that half the inventory had practically been ploughed by truckers, drifters, and pregnant parents with two A.M. cravings. His eyes drifted past the yogurts, ham and cheddar cracker trays, chilled coffees, and weirdly colored juices until he landed on a bottle of honey-colored sweet tea, flavored with peach, his mouth twitching into a satisfied smile. 

“Found it?”

“I’m so ready to guzzle the hell out of this,” Keith said triumphantly. “If they have my sandwich it’ll be perfect. Oh and maybe one of those pickles, the spicy ones — god, I missed those — what are you staring at?”

Shiro blinked in surprise, eyebrows raising, as though he’d just realized he’d been staring the entire time Keith had been speaking. His face tinged a shade of pink that made Keith think of old children’s storybooks, where the fair maidens had deep rosy cheeks and bright hair that glinted in the sunlight. He thought of Shiro standing in a meadow, surrounded by trees and birds, waiting for his prince charming. 

It was a ridiculous image, one that he knew Shiro would absolutely adore. 

“Uh — nothing. Sorry. It’s just — I’m glad you’re back.”

Keith stared at Shiro, thought a moment, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of the taller man’s mouth. “It’s good to be back,” he replied, watching Shiro’s blush deepen instantly before turning on his heel, heading to the deli section with a satisfied grin.

 

* * *

 

The ride back seemed slower, somehow. Keith had no clue what time it was — he had never quite appreciated the concept of a watch, and found that tracking any given hour of the day made him unusually nervous. Often, he had dreams involving inexplicable time lapses; moments where suddenly, decades had passed, and he was old with nothing familiar around him — with no one.

He kept those dreams to himself. He'd learned long ago to stay silent in the night, even when roused abruptly from sleep, the last lingering forms of frightening unreal images like little pinpricks in his brain, retreating from the corners of his vision as his eyes would adjust to the dark.

Shiro didn't need to know. Besides, Keith hadn't had those dreams in a while. He couldn't imagine it happening anytime soon, especially where he was now, face pressed against his husband's slightly hunched back as they rumbled along past the scenery, batches of fallen leaves rustling wildly in their wake.

Home appeared just over the hill, windows dark and the curtains drawn. Keith wondered if Kosmo had taken it upon himself to occupy the home in their absence — the last time he'd been home and ventured out with Shiro, they'd come back to a very rowdy space wolf digging holes in the backyard.

“You're so quiet,” Shiro remarked as they slowed down, floating along the driveway. Keith shrugged.

“Just thinking.”

“Uh oh.” 

“Nothing bad,” Keith reassured, though he knew the low tremor in his voice betrayed him. As if on cue, Shiro’s ears seemed to perk up, but he said nothing as he brought the bike to a slow stop, cutting the power. The whir of manmade gears was replaced with the cadence of nighttime, sharp and distant cricket chirps nearly in step with Keith’s heartbeat. He stepped on a small pile of crunchy leaves as he dismounted and let out a slow, shaky breath, suddenly and inexplicably aware of how human he felt.

 

* * *

 

 

Keith had stepped out of the shower and dressed only in sweatpants when he found Shiro rifling through the cupboards, two containers of tomato bisque in his hands. “Found some soup,” he announced without turning to face Keith. “Forgot I had it sitting back here. Your sandwich is in the oven. Low heat.”

Keith ran his hands through his wet hair, towel slung around his shoulders. The cotton rubbed against his neck comfortably; he leaned into the texture and wiped a trail of water from the side of his face, gazing at Shiro gratefully. “Uh — thanks.”

On the island was Keith’s tea and a cup of ice water, the purple plastic frosted over and dripping on the countertop, sealed wood decorated with cold droplets. He leaned on the counter and lazily traced patterns in the water with his finger, dragging the liquid around on the smooth wood and ignoring Shiro’s stare.

“You still thinking?”

Keith took his time to look up, just barely meeting Shiro’s eyes. “I just….” He tried to find words, struggling, reaching for his tea and popping the top off but not taking a sip. “Sometimes,” he tried again, mouth suddenly dry, “this all seems like a dream.”

He took a swig of tea and Shiro paused, eyebrow raised. “Like everything’s really good, or like everything could be gone?”

“A little of both.” Keith backed away from the counter and took his sandwich from the oven, though his appetite was long gone. The kitchen was slowly filling with the smell of soup; Shiro used the stovetop, since Keith regarded microwaves as “nutrient-sucking devil boxes.” Shiro quietly agreed, though it didn’t keep him from zapping a fuel station burrito every now and again when he felt like being a neanderthal.

Keith put the sandwich on a plate, sat at the counter, and picked at the bread as he continued. “Do you ever get the feeling that things sometimes...move strange? Like, one moment, everything is normal, but then you space out, and when you phase back into the present you wonder if anything...changed?”

The kitchen suddenly felt much bigger than it was; the house was small and mostly wood, save for the painted eggshell walls. Yet somehow, Keith felt like the smallest thing in there, the world quiet and looming above. He shut his eyes momentarily, focusing on his breathing until he felt a gentle touch beneath his chin. 

“Hey.”

Keith focused on Shiro, who appeared in sharp relief against the dark wood tones; his hair and shirt were white, his eyes a clear gray, reminding Keith of warm silver. Behind Shiro, his right arm stirred the soup.

“God, that’s handy,” Keith blurted, “can I get a back rub on my missions some time?”

Shiro blinked, then caught on, pursing his lips in mild annoyance. “Sure, I’ll send you a care package. My arm and every bottle of peach iced tea in existence.”

“That’s the dream.”

“C’mon, I’m trying to be serious. Look at me.”

Keith sighed, but complied all the same. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“I know the time skips messed with you,” Shiro said gently, “but I promise, this is real. You’re real, I’m real. You’re doing great. And I’m not going anywhere as long as I can help it. Okay?”

Keith shrugged.

Shiro’s eyebrows knitted in concern. “What is it?”

“Just…” Keith swallowed, suddenly nervous. He took another swig of tea and exhaled hard after it went down, his chest burning a bit. “I don’t know. Sleeping is...hard, too.”

Shiro’s arm switched off the stove and it floated back to its base, gleaming white from the lights overhead. Something buzzed in Keith’s skin, like a consistent shiver; it traveled up his back and through his arms, making his heart go faster than he particularly liked. He tapped his foot against the barstool and ran sharp teeth against his lower lip.

“You having dreams?”

Keith shut his eyes. “I...yeah. Yeah.”

He opened them again when he suddenly felt a weight against him; Shiro was embracing him tightly, the towel around Keith’s shoulders falling to the floor. Shiro pressed his face against Keith’s, seemingly unbothered by Keith’s damp hair. A moment passed, then another, and one more, before Keith finally responded, slowly hugging Shiro, then tightening his grip on the older man’s strong, massive, scarred back, as though he were the one thing that grounded him in this world — the only weight he wanted to carry until the very end.

“I know you know it, but I love you,” Shiro said, “and I want you to tell me about this stuff.”

“I hate making you worry.”

“I’m your husband. I’m supposed to worry. I literally signed up for it.”

Keith let out a nervous laugh, pulling back to rest his forehead against Shiro’s chest. Shiro held him close, rubbing his bare shoulder with his mechanical hand. Despite not being flesh and bone, his touch felt just as reassuring as it would if it’d been his other hand. Keith felt at home with Shiro, no matter what — his heart warmed at every touch, every look. He could forget about mostly anything with him, sometimes.

“Okay,” Keith said. “Thank you, Shiro. I love you too.”

“I know,” Shiro said, kissing the top of Keith’s head. “Still hungry?”

“God, yeah.”

Shiro served their food, Keith taking slow and careful bites of his sandwich. Shiro started talking about everything he’d been up to since Keith had been gone, and Keith listened carefully, losing himself in the cadence of Shiro’s voice, allowing it to envelop him. He ate and nodded and felt something wash over him, holding him down in such a way that he did not feel suffocated, but free. He studied Shiro as he listened to him go on, Shiro making faces and moving his hands around animatedly, goofy and adorable and  _ real _ .

Keith smiled and dipped his sandwich in his soup, feeling more grounded than he had in quite a long time.


End file.
